Silas doesn’t say a word, but a vein in his neck jumps. I swear I see it twitch.
I could leave it alone. I really could. But I’m me. And Silas looks… composed, but only barely. That calm, commanding shell doesn’t fool me.
So I toss a smile over my shoulder and add, “You look familiar, though. Maybe I’ve seen you around somewhere?”
The sharptweetof his whistle pierces the air, cutting through conversation like a blade.
“Pick up the pace,” he says flatly. “You’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”
And just like that, the game begins.
I grin and run.
Ty falls into pace beside me, his head already on a swivel like he’s checking to make sure no one else saw what he just saw.
Will catches up on my other side, glancing between me and Coach Gray like we’ve just dropped into the middle of a soap opera.
“What the fuck was that?” Ty hisses under his breath.
I shrug, breath light. “What was what?”
Will narrows his eyes. “You mean to tell me you didn’t see the way he looked at you?”
“Pretty sure he was looking at all of us,” I say, feigning innocence. “Wewerelate.”
“No,” Ty says, voice low and conspiratorial. “He was looking atyoulike he wanted to bury you under the turf and call it a lesson plan.”
Will snorts. “Or like he already did and regrets it.”
“Maybe he’s just not a morning person.” I smile sweetly, which only makes them more suspicious.
Ty groans. “Luke. Tell me you didn’t fuck our new coach.”
“I didn’t,” I lie cheerfully.
Will groans louder. “Yousodid.”
“Nothing wrong with a little cardio before cardio,” I say lightly. “And I can say with complete honesty, I had no clue.” Then I pick up my pace before they can press further.
Behind me, I feel the weight of Silas’s stare like heat on the back of my neck.
Good.
Let’s see who breaks first.
SIX
SILAS
Coach Harris sidlesup beside me, his clipboard tucked under one arm, chewing on the end of a pen cap that’s been mangled to hell. His eyes follow the three stragglers now jogging laps as if they’ve never heard of punctuality.
“That’s Luke Maddox with the mouth,” he says gruffly, jerking his chin toward Luke. “Running back. Presses every damn button he can find just to see what happens—but he plays like a demon when the ball’s in his hands.”
I don’t respond right away, but the images his words bring up have nothing to do with football.
Because Maddox—Luke—is jogging like he owns the field. As though his delay was planned and the whistle I blew just now didn’t rattle him at all.
Because it didn’t.
